


Cold Comfort Commonwealth

by 60Minuteman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, I suck at tags, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Minuteman Victory, Multi, Post-Game, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/60Minuteman/pseuds/60Minuteman
Summary: With the Institute gone and the Brotherhood destroyed, life in the new Commonwealth continues on. But the ghosts of the past continue to haunt the General of the Minutemen, the Alpha of the Railroad, and the Sentinel of the Brotherhood Remnants. Their mistakes, the ones they've left behind, and the paths they still have to follow are all laid out before them. Project in progress, imported from Fanfiction





	1. Aftermath I

Morning at the Castle. He'd moved his quarters to one of the chambers underground, giving the old one to Ronnie Shaw. She was here more often, it only made sense for the post commander to possess that room. But General Hal Grayson wanted to be a bit harder to reach. A bit tougher to find. Lately, he hadn't been at his best in the morning. His sleep hadn't been coming to him easily. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his troops coming to at this hour. Drilling in the yard, rifle practice outside the south wall, Radio Freedom blasting its violin music over the speakers as whoever was operating it made the morning announcements. Today, it was Sergeant Ferguson. He knew because she'd drawn the short straw on the duty roster, and she absolutely hated doing it. But life went on in the Post-War, Post-Institute Commonwealth.

Normally, he'd be up and at it around zero-five, out in the yard at zero-six with a mug of coffee in hand as he made himself privvy to supply issues from Colonel Shaw, troop movements in the north from Garvey at Northern Command in Starlight, reviewing recruitment efforts (there'd been a huge surge from Diamond City lately) and seeing to the usual business about the Castle. But he hadn't been able to keep on his routine lately, and Colonel Shaw had wordlessly taken over many of his duties until he managed to get himself out there. When he got himself out there.

Grayson finally sat up, sighing as he rubbed his gaunt face, feeling the two-week stubble over the pockmarked scars. Some he'd acquired during his time in the US. Alaska had been cruel. But those jagged marks under his jaw were from a Deathclaw trying to eat his head. The deep burns on his cheek from when a Forged had smashed him with the nozzle of a flamer. The scrawling tear around his eyebrow from an Assaultron outside Vault 95 only not taking the upper half of his skull off because of Cait body-tackling the bot. His other cheek was a sinister pucker, a savage .45 slug from a Raider's revolver blowing his mouth out. And that was only the marks on his face. His fingers ran over the damage, grunting at the sensations. He had mapped his face out many times, a once handsome visage twisted by the Commonwealth. The past few days, he had run his hands over his face so many times, he wondered whether his cheeks or his fingers would give way first.

He needed something to get him out of this...a return to form. His hand felt the stubble again.

A shave. Perfect.

He stood, moving to the attached bathroom. The lightbulb chain was tugged halfheartedly, and he glanced up into the mirror. A gaunt, thin, tired face greeted him, and he needed a second to recognize himself. Since waking up, he'd lost weight due to malnutrition and going without a few times, but it was only now that he realized he'd been surviving the past week on caffeine and a few quick meals like Blamco, and not nearly enough. The Castle had a fully stocked kitchen, and received foodstuffs from other farms, as well as a small vegetable garden and fishing the troops did in their off hours. The Minutemen cooks were quite skilled, and now had much practice with preparing large batches of food. With this glut of nutrition, he should have been feasting like a king. But the General of the Minutemen was instead starving like a resident of Jamaica Plain (seemed like those folks could never catch a break). He'd never even felt any hunger pangs.

With a small grunt, Grayson reached down, pulling a straight razor from the cup on the sink, pulling the blade out and running his sharpener over it. Some things had truly been lost to history after all.

He stirred up a small tin can full of foam, quickly running over his face. This kind of luxury, in so short a supply, was something he'd held on to for a while. True, when he'd first emerged, the lack of shaving utensils and time meant he'd slipped back to his old Alaska habits of ignoring his growing beard. The onset of winter had merely made growing one more practical. But then he'd reinitiated the attack on the Institute, and the pressure of being an officer in charge of a force this large once more had forced him into shaving his face, and he'd started feeling like it was Alaska all over again. This time, however, he was making a difference.

Until the Prydwen.

He tried not to let himself think of it, taking up the razor and trying to figure out where to start. He'd lost so much weight that he was unfamiliar with looking at his usual spots. Finally, however, he decided on the line just under his jaw, reaching and pulling upwards. However, he suddenly remembered another small scar, but before he could stop his hand-

* * *

Paladin-Commander Brandis winced from the cut. Not the worst pain, but without a mirror he was forced to work by touch. After losing his beard, he'd gotten used to the way the Prydwen had been able to provide. A real head, not the survival bunker's tiny excuse, with real food and drink. It was a shame he'd only been there for a few months before the tragedy had struck.

He pulled his hand back, looking at the blood. Not too serious, he'd be fine. But this damned razor was dull, and he tossed it aside in disgust. No time to sharpen. No time to really do any of the usual routine lately. It was wakeup, get to the briefing room, grab a bite and coffee, and see to the business of the Brotherhood's survival. Well, the Remnants, at least. The term had been coined by Scribe Haylen to distinguish between their meager, reduced force and the East Coast Chapter proper, still down in DC. Getting a message to them had been difficult, and Brandis wasn't sure their broadcast shortwave distress signals were even being picked up. The Big Apple Wasteland's radiation signature made direct communication impossible. Even now, weeks after the fact, the Citadel might not even know Maxson was dead, along with all of his Proctors.

He glanced towards the door, remembering their patient in the cell converted to an ICU. Well, most of his Proctors.

Along with all the Squires aboard. So many Scribes. Dozens of Knights and Paladins. Almost all their Vertibirds. The whole arsenal.

Brandis had attempted to go salvage the wreck. But Boston Airport was Minuteman territory now. He wasn't suicidal...at least, not enough to sell his life stupidly. There would be a time soon when he'd make his death worth it, and he'd finally go into the afterlife to be confronted by his dead comrades.

So funny. Between the recon team and the Prydwen, and now the Remnants, he had a nasty habit lately of outliving his comrades.

Brandis groaned as he shifted, hunting around for the syringe. He wasn't a chem-rocker, never was, but the bandaged bullet wound in his thigh demanded his attention. Stimpacks were in short supply, needed for those who were actually wounded down in the Cambridge PD basement. Medical supplies were scarce, and medical personnel even fewer, falling on just four medics to attend to dozens. But Med-X they had plenty of, and Brandis had been allotted his own supply to allow himself to heal naturally. It still hurt like a bastard, but better than going without.

He decided against shaving today, and the Paladin-Commander stood, checking himself one more time before leaving his office/quarters. The old precinct was a buzz of activity, as the few Scribes they had remaining rushed around attempting to coordinate with Knights and Initiates trying to keep the Remnants a fighting force. Weapons and ammunition were in plentiful supply, at least, and food scavenged from the ruins could keep them fed (though Cram and Blamco weren't the healthiest meal choices) but fusion cores and power armor parts were in desperate supply after the loss of the Prydwen and her maintenance bay. Many of the defenders on the ground in Boston airport, around Goodneighbour and on patrol in the Commonwealth had little more than their weapons, supplies on hand and armor frames, which exacerbated the supply issue when several hundred Brotherhood soldiers were suddenly dumped on the Cambridge PD outpost. The surrounding yards had been turned into overcrowded camps, and the streets of Cambridge a free fire zone all over again, but the Remnants were outnumbered, undersupplied and constantly under siege.

And somehow Brandis was supposed to pick them up out of this mess.

"Paladin-Commander," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to his second in command Knight Penelope Straker. She'd been an Initiate upon first arriving in the Commonwealth, and had even been the one to track Brandis across the torn ruins of upper Boston. With a certain General's help, as it happened. Though Straker never spoke of it anymore, without support from the Minutemen, she'd never have survived the trek alone.

Fate was certainly a fickle mistress.

Brandis nodded back to her wordlessly, and she extended a mug of coffee, dark as her skin. She wore combat armor herself, a full set colored in Brotherhood red and black. Her own T-60 suit was in for what repairs could be done, but the Knight was still one of few who kept hold of their armor.

"Another Ranger party last night. That makes four this week. They're scouting us for sure." She scowled as she stood next to him, watching the beehive activity boiling through the temporary HQ. "Only a matter of time before they drop some more mortar shells on us."

"They haven't yet," Brandis assured her. "For whatever reason. Maybe they're out of shells? So long as they don't, we're still alive."

He automatically brought the mug up to his lips, beginning to take a gulp. But his mind suddenly scream at him that he'd forgotten to check the temperature, and his lip began to scald-

* * *

Desdemona brought the mug down with a wince. Much too hot. Must have only just come out of the pot. She coughed, setting the mug down. More than likely, she'd get so busy she'd forget about the mug and it would be cold again by the time she remembered it. Her hand moved straight from the ceramic over to a notebook, which she flipped open, checking a list of names before glancing up at the map. Around her, Railroad agents worked to restore the tower to a more sustainable state. It had never been that hospitable to begin with, but after the Brotherhood attack teams had struck, and in the ensuing evacuation and battle afterwards, the Railroad's center of operations in the Old North Church had been rendered asunder. With further attacks a guarantee and now compromised beyond recovery, the Church had to be abandoned, just like the Switchboard before it. Ticonderoga Safehouse may have been wiped out by the Institute, but the Brotherhood knew nothing about it, and that made it a more suitable center with the Battle of the Boston Commons raging outside Goodneighbor. With the fight over, suggestions had been made to reclaim the Old North Church, or even the Switchboard now that the Institute was gone, but Desdemona had vetoed both suggestions. With Randolph dismantled, their safehouses in the west no longer existed, and Mercer Safehouse up in Kingsport necessitated a secret base here in the east. And everyone knew where the church hideout was now.

Things were changing, fast. With the destruction of the Institute and the Brotherhood reduced to Remnants, synth safety was both more assured and more important than ever. True, the Institute was no longer around, and the Brotherhood no longer actively hunting them, but synths that had escaped from the Institute were even now still turning up on the surface, whether alive or dead. The sad reality was, alone and unaware of the dangers the Commonwealth posed, these synths were at risk to dying horribly in any number of ways. Only those who had learned to hide in the deepest holes of Boston or figured out how to fight quickly had survived, and the Railroad had done their best to find them.

They were as alone in that fight as before. While General Grayson had forbidden violence against synths and ghouls based solely on their nature, individuals were difficult to account for. Reports of violence against synths from regular citizens had risen sharply. Given that many synths wore their Institute jumpsuits, Dez supposed that was an inevitability, but then there were those who wanted revenge against synth infiltrators, synths who had been wiped and living their lives in peace. Railroad agents were attempting to shift those people out and away from potential discovery, which meant finding synths in large population areas. In Diamond City and Goodneighbor, they were all too likely to simply be shot on discovery, whatever the Minutemen said (though sometimes it was the Minutemen doing it) though in Starlight or Sanctuary this wasn't quite the case. Regardless, Dez and her agents were as alone as ever.

"Where are we with the L&L Gang?" she asked, tossing the notepad down to the table in front of her.

"Bullseye is coming back with that," replied Deacon, wearing one of his numerous disguises. This time, he was a Neighborhood Watchman, his pilfered Thompson Century set down next to him. "Big Maude was the target this time, down in Dunwich Borers. Yeesh, I don't envy him that job. That place is damned unsettling."

"Good," said Dez, unconsciously checking the Colt 10mm at her belt. Ever since the Switchboard's fall, she'd been getting worse about her own paranoia. The attack on the Old North Church sealed that, and she'd seen fit to reinforce her clothes with ballistic fibers and find a small, concealed armor vest to wear under her jacket. Three grenades hung on her belt now, and a boot knife had made its way into her jeans. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd finally taken Bullseye's advice or if the Brotherhood had really shaken her up that badly. Hell, she'd even stashed a hunting shotgun under her desk, loaded with incendiary shells.

She moved on to the next order or business, losing track of exactly what she was talking about. She'd been on autopilot since the move, focusing on her work and her agents. Sleep came little, and other distractions few. She needed to keep working. If she had time to herself, time for her mind to wander, it always went wandering down the same tracks. She was still reliving the nightmare of the Switchboard, the slaughter that went down there. Then practically in an eyeblink the Church was gutted by the Brotherhood. If not for Glory's sacrifice and both Bullseye and Deacon's clever thinking, they would have been wiped out long before the Minuteman force had flanked the Brotherhood attack.

" _Dez! Tincans coming! Maxson's lost his mind!"_

" _The escape tunnel's compromised!"_

" _Knights coming in!"_

" _They're blowing through the walls!"_

" _DRUMMER!"_

Dez blinked, suddenly realizing she had several agents staring at her, Deacon included. Whatever she was doing, she must have drifted off in the middle of it, her hand still extended, about to point at something. What it was, she couldn't recall. She looked up at Deacon, blinking as realization spread through her. Ticonderoga was quiet, as around the room everyone stared at Desdemona. She grimaced. How obvious had she been lately if this many of her people had been so attentive to her actions?

"Dez?" Deacon's face, normally so laid back or carefully controlled, was etched with worry, more than he'd ever shown. He reached out to her.

"I'm fine," she said harshly, taking a visible step away. Deacon's hand hung in the air for a moment before he put it down, shaking his head.

"No, Dez," he said quietly. "You're really not."

"Are you forgetting something? We have a mission here. Save synth lives. Whether from the Institute, the Brotherhood, the L&L Gang, Diamond City, the Commonwealth or even the Minutemen!" That last one she was a little hesitant about. Upsetting the strongest power in the Commonwealth when the Railroad was ready to collapse seemed like old hat, but Dez wasn't in a logical place at the moment. "Our individual safety comes second to all that. While we're chatting right now, Captain Sally and the L&L Gang are torturing more synths! A paranoid farmer is blasting someone who walks up in an Institute jumpsuit! A Minuteman is looking the other way as a lynch mob hangs whoever they think is a former Institute synth! An escapee on the run is about to wander into Salem and get torn apart by Deathclaws or Mirelurks! It's time you focus on your job and stop worrying about ME!"

Desdemona had always prided herself on her even temperament, though she'd admit it to no one. In sixteen years of service and eleven of those in the Alpha position, she'd handled every situation with direct, calm action. Her days as a field agent had seen her on several assassination jobs, infiltration missions and retrieval operations, and the reason she'd been chosen to replace Pinky Thompson had been her ability to keep her head, no matter the circumstance. But now, it seemed, her legendary temperance had left her.

A jerk at her arm, and she felt herself pulled away, the door slamming open in front of her as she was dragged into what had nominally become 'her office'. She was heavily dropped into her seat, through her curses and protests as she glanced up, fury etched into her face.

"Dammit, Bullseye! What the hell was that, dragging me off like that in front of **everyone**! You are pushing it, big time!"

"Dez, shut up. Doc Carrington's on his way, you need to calm down."

Bullseye was a Railroad heavy of exceptional skill. Right when General Grayson was taking his hunt for his son to Fort Hagen, Roland Moore was found sniping Institute attack synths from the Old North Church steeple, not even realizing he'd been right on top of the Railroad's HQ. Even with .50 caliber shell casings around his ankles and a Courser dispatched to take him out, neither side had made the realization until Glory had charged out and finished the fight. Extensive interrogation revealed Moore had been escorting a stranger here to the church without even knowing they were a synth. The man was found dead in the next building over, killed by super mutants, and Moore had been forced to hole up as the SRB's attempts to collect their property ran into the marksman. From there, Bullseye had been christened, and quickly racked up a body count to rival Glory's. Though he'd lost an eye during the Brotherhood's raid and been forced to wear a patch over the sickly wound, his aim had barely been spoiled, and he was always willing to put rounds on target for the Railroad, finding a new rival in the mercenary MacCready. On top of this, he'd become Desdemona's top heavy, and would have been the one to spearhead the attack on the Institute if the opening hadn't closed for them. Through this, the two had developed a quiet, professional relationship, almost friends.

Bullseyes glared down at Dez, though she saw no real rage there. Concern, certainly, but maybe a quiet fury that was buried under several layers. No one in the Railroad knew the whole story about each other, and like her Bullseye was a bit of a mystery. Aside from being a rather charitable merc, his motivation for freeing synths was unknown, but he hadn't led the Railroad astray so far. He'd protected the Church, Ticonderoga, Bunker Hill and Mercer with amazing tenacity. Like Desdemona, his own focus and control were razor sharp, and the intensity he had latched on her was extreme.

"Dez, you're coming apart at the seams. You don't sleep, you hardly eat, all you do is smoke, drink coffee and run yourself into the ground. Shit, ever since the Institute's fall all you've done is go harder. You're going. To. Kill yourself."

"I didn't realize you were my mother," she spat back. She didn't know where that all came from. Why was this happening? She had a grip on herself, even under the worst circumstances. But here she was, berating her agents for their concern. That was never something she'd done in other times of crisis.

Bullseye narrowed his...well, eye at her before he turned back to the door, hissing "I'll let Doc Carrington know he's going to have a bit of a struggle here. **Don't** leave."

And with that, one of her last capable agents stepped out and closed the door behind.

Now she was alone with her thoughts. Exactly what she was afraid of.

Desdemona reached up, rubbing at her temples. It was true she hadn't been sleeping so well, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a full meal. Her mind began racing, and she knew that was also because of dehydration. She had yet to resort to chems like Tinker Tom had, but in Drummer Boy's absence, she'd had to fetch more of her coffee herself. It wasn't something she asked him to do, just something he seemed to automatically know. Well, knew.

Her head slowly raised as she leaned back, pushing her chair back until she could look through her office window, into the main room outside. Her agents were mostly attending their duties as before, but Deacon and Bullseye were off to the side with Doc Carrington, most likely discussing her current state. She felt like a prisoner, or a quarantined patient. But now, calm and separated from the rest of the team, the more she thought about it the more she realized they were right. She had been on edge the past few weeks, losing her sanity through her own self-inflicted trauma. But after losing Sam, and then joining the Railroad and watching her friends getting picked off only to see the majority of her followers slain in two battles, it was the moments where it was quiet and she was alone where the felt the worst, because the cracks under her skin could almost be visible. Like she could shatter with the next impact.

With no work to do and no one to talk to, her eyes drifted (as they were wont to do) towards the wall where no furniture had been placed. In a structure like Ticonderoga where space was a premium, this meant the wall had to be important. And it was. In white paint, the Railroad lantern was drawn at the top, and underneath a list of names scrawled on.

Beatrice Bell. Maven. Miss Boom. Roger. Francis O'Dell. Sly Nicholas. Kelly K. Songbird. Mister Mathers. Tommy Whispers. Snow. Freeman. High Rise. Dutchman. Helena. Blackbird. Drummer Boy. Glory.

That was just the start. Dozens of Railroad agents had died under her watch, all of them written into that list, on that wall. Her hand clenched into a fist against the glass, her head dipping as she felt herself tilting forward, forehead against the cool surface. She was so tired. Tired and alone.

* * *

The door to his quarters swung open, and General Grayson stepped out, dressed in Minuteman coat and officer's hat (he had immediately hung up the tricorn, opting for a more appropriate piece of headgear he'd obtained from a Coast Guard station), grunting as he adjusted his armor vest, blue and grey with the Minuteman logo emblazoned across the front. Dogmeat, who had been patiently waiting, perked his head up, tail wagging as he rose for his master.

"Hey boy. Sorry you were out all night again."

Most nights, Dogmeat stayed with Grayson, curled up at the foot of his bed. Some nights, however, Dogmeat ran off on his own agenda, and as a result had a problem getting back in when Grayson was asleep. Though the General had his own suspicions about where his four-legged friend went.

"Have fun with Gracie last night?"

Dogmeat tilted his head to the side, as if feigning innocence. Gracie, the Castle's mutant hound sentry, had made fast friends with the other dogs the Minutemen used. Her kennel was much larger, of course, but she and Dogmeat were the best of companions. Some Minutemen were even beginning to make jokes about what the puppies would look like.

Dogmeat stuck to Grayson's side as the two made their way up through the catacombs. The sound of other troops going about their day filled the fort, and every group of Regulars he passed swiftly stood aside, saluting as they greeted him. Grayson and Dogmeat headed for the surface, quickly passing the chambers that made up the lower portion of the Castle. Barracks, supply rooms, a rec area, a medical wing, the robotics maintenance area. The surface area was only half of the Minuteman HQ's capability.

Grayson felt proud. He embraced it, welcoming anything that lifted his misery. These soldiers had come a long way. But if they were going to complete Grayson's plans, they had a long way to go.

Emerging into the outside, Grayson tugged on the brim of his cap as he squinted against the sunlight. The roar of rotors cut the air as a Vertibird, colored in Minuteman blue, flew past, headed for the airbase on Spectacle Island. Every week, another aircraft was recovered from the wrecks across the Commonwealth, be they Army, Coast Guard or Brotherhood wrecks, and with Sturges and Isabel leading the salvage efforts from the Mechanist's Lair as well as putting together robots and assembling rifles, the Minutemen were becoming a truly modern force. A pair of Minutemen Enforcers, veteran Reglars wearing T-45D powered armor suits, strode by, both of them saluting as they moved, the miniguns they were hauling obviously going towards the armory.

Tents set up in the Castle covered staging zones, briefing areas and equipment tables. Minutemen Regulars taught Militia the finer points of their R-91s, cleaned their weapons and handloaded ammunition, Enforcers maintained their armor in racks, bayonets fixed to weapons and machetes sharpened. Grenadiers were passed explosives, Marksmen fine tuned hunting rifles and laser muskets and up on the ramparts Regulars patrolled in blue and grey armor, eager and waiting for the next attack. But after repelling both the Institute and the Brotherhood, it seemed the Commonwealth had given up on trying to force them from the Castle.

Dogmeat barked, and nearby several figures turned to spy Grayson approaching. While two were recognizable by the navy blue dusters they wore and distinctive headgear marking them as the senior officers of the keep, the other two were a bit harder for the General to place, dressed merely in flannels, jeans and lightweight leather armor. Dogmeat ran up to one of the officers, the woman with the black beret, and she kneeled down, scratching the German Shepard behind his ears. Ronnie always had a soft spot for the dog.

"Morning Colonel," Grayson said to his second in command. To the man, he also shot a nod. "Captain." The ghoul Sanders nodded back, his face blank and stoic as usual. Sanders was a star officer through and through, unflappable and unwavering. He'd been leader of the Slog's militia, and joined up when Brotherhood extortions on surrounding farms had forced Wiseman to act. The result had not been pretty. Sanders had been a diehard Minuteman ever since. His current assignment to the Castle's QRF had been a smart move, as he had taken every call and won, leading his Regulars from the front, no matter the enemy. Ronnie was proud of her first officer.

Grayson turned to the two strangers, wondering for a moment if they were civilian merchants, salesmen who were here looking to supply the Castle. While that had been a prospect the Minutemen had survived on before, these days the contributions from other settlements meant their purchases were fewer and far between. Arms and ammunition, uniforms, food and high tech parts were supplied by the Minutemen Provisioner Corps. Still, a little economic stimulation to pad the armory was never a bad thing.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I…" he trailed off, allowing the two men their chance to introduce themselves.

"Right. Commander Bailey, Far Harbor Militia," said the senior, his beard obscuring most of his face. Still, he reached his hand out, and Grayson shook it, noting the man's tight grasp and numerous callouses even under the gloves. "Good to meet you General. Captain Avery sends her regards."

Far Harbor was an allied port, an island several days travel to the north, only accessible by boat for the moment. New Hampshire was so overgrown, Grayson suspected they might have to employ jungle warfare to deal with whatever creatures might reside there. He'd been in Africa before the War, and suspected this might be even worse. Regardless, Far Harbor had seen rough times lately, and that had produced fighters so tough and proficient with fishing boats that they could almost be counted as marines. They'd turned down membership in the Minutemen, but Captain Avery had promised that should the Commonwealth need help, their friends in the north would be willing to come to the rescue.

Bailey thumbed over to the man next to him, rather emotionless and blank even compared to Sanders.

"This is Marston, from Acadia. No formal rank, so far as I'm aware."

Marston simply tilted his head downwards, his eyes never leaving Grayson.

Ronnie stood, giving Dogmeat one last scratch before she said "These two have come from Captain Avery looking to request some help back on the Island. Normally we don't deploy that far afield, but I wanted to leave it to you, sir."

And, of course, she waited until Grayson had come out instead of sending a runner. More evidence of the General's fragility. The normally tough and ass-chewing Colonel Shaw was being, of all things, discreet. That never spelled well. On top of that, the Harbormen were proud of their self-sufficiency, and the Acadians of their isolation. What happened that made them both decide they needed the Minutemen of all people, and asking together?

But Grayson merely nodded, gesturing to a door to take them off towards Shaw's quarters, also their high-security briefing room. "Shall we take this in the ready room, Colonel?"

The group began drifting towards the door, but when Sanders stepped forward, Greyson paused, spotting something that had been behind the ghoul officer. His hands fell to his side, the cigarette pack he'd been fishing out of a pocket forgotten. He remembered the memorial was there, of course. But for a few minutes, he'd almost missed it in the interest of attempting to carry on. But today, of all days, his thoughts had haunted him especially hard, and as a result the sight carried him forward, away from the departing group. Colonel Shaw glanced back, taking a double take before cursing under her breath.

His boots crunched in the dirt as he approached the wall. Regulars moved out of his way as he stepped around the radio station, and the closer he got the more Minutemen stared after him, realizing where he was going. There was one span of wall without a tent. Along the north, by the large main gate and towards the armory, there was a piece of cleared ground, the wall there specially reserved. The stone was carefully carved, and every Minuteman both respected and dreaded it. At the top, a painted sign read ' **FOR THOSE THAT FELL FOR FREEDOM'**. The General stepped forward, sighing as he read the wall, like he had dozens of times already. Dogmeat sat next to him, whimpering as he did.

Grayson knew them all. Whether he met them or not, or saw how they died or not, he had looked into them after they had been killed. Where they came from, who their friends were, how they had died. They were his soldiers, and he was their General. While in war men and women died, in the Commonwealth every day was war for the Minutemen. There was always more to be done here for them.

Private Harold Warburton. Killed by a Courser during the 2nd Battle of the Castle where the Institute was determined to wipe the Minutemen off the map, shortly after Grayson had rejected Father following Bunker Hill. The man had taken up a mounted .50 cal and had been laying down fire to allow a team of Minutemen to withdraw from the outer trenches when a stealthed Courser had simply stepped up, put a pistol to the man's head and pulled the trigger.

Lieutenant Jessica Saunders. Killed by Gunners defending the ghoul boy named Billy. The best tactical officer in the Castle QRF, and the most capable medic the Minutemen had under Curie. She'd always lended a helping hand in the medical ward, and had the highest recovery rate of all Minuteman medics in service, even to this day.

Sergeant Matthew McGill. Killed detonating a frag grenade in his hand while wounded, surrounded by security synths in the depths of the Institute. Cut off and alone with his comrades dead around him, he'd squirreled away and let the enemy come to him before he finished them, laughing loudly.

Captain Luis Rivera. The first junior officer Preston Garvey had promoted, one of Marberry's lot who had survived Quincy after all and originally gone into hiding after the fact, but emerged to reenlist. Killed during the Battle of Boston Commons defending Goodneighbor next to the Neighborhood Watch as the Brotherhood invaded.

Wiseman. Not truly a Minuteman, but he'd backed the group, and sheltered every soldier who came to his dangerous part of the Commonwealth. Stood his ground against the Brotherhood when they came calling for part of his harvest, and had the guts to say 'no' to a Knight with a laser rifle in his face. Died with defiance on his lips.

Colonel John Marbury. Thought dead during Quincy, returned to service once more. He'd been given command of Croup Manor, Minuteman Command East. From there, Marbury's men had struck against the Brotherhood time and time again, and had been the ones to hold back the tide of high-tech soldiers in the Boston Commons. When Maxson retaliated, he did so in Croup Manor. Casualties had been heavy, but the Minutemen had escaped with more wounded than dead, and Colonel Marbury alone had remained. When Brotherhood Knights kicked in his door, he had merely smoked a cigar, taken a drink and thumbed the detonator, exploding the munitions dump in the basement. The entire building had been levelled, taking every Brotherhood soldier attacking the Manor and several Vertibirds with it. A victory for the Brotherhood, but a pyrrhic one that robbed Maxson of vital defenders and equipment.

The wall had dozens. More. At last count, even since Grayson had become General, over two-hundred and fifty Minutemen had given their lives for the Commonwealth, the fighters at Quincy included. Two-hundred and fifty he'd failed, both Regulars and Militia, in less than two years. He reached out, his fingers running over the engraved stone, feeling the grooves under his fingertips. At the base of the wall, boots, hats, folded coats, jars with flowers in them, spent shell casings, dogtags, folded Minuteman flags, small mementos (such as cameras, holotape players, pictures in frames) and more. This wall was constantly visited, and carefully maintained. A cloth overhang protected the place from the rain, stretched over a large portion of wall, a practical move considering the Minutemen were expecting many more conflicts in the future. How many more would fill the wall? At this rate, hundreds. The span was too short for thousands, but perhaps the Memorial would be continued downstairs, or in a special record?

He still remembered the attack on the Institute, swamping into the clean facility over the blood of his fallen, chunks and parts discarded like simply meat. Lasers blasted away whole pieces and limbs, and could be arguably worse than bullets. Trying to clear the SRB had been the worst, with Coursers attacking in goddamn teams.

The Battle of Boston Commons. Backed by the Railroad, Minutemen forces had enacted a fighting retreat to Goodneighbor, where Hancock had led his Neighborhood Watch to dig in for a terrifying defense without artillery, while the guns were reoriented on the Prydwen. According to radio reports on the ground, entire buildings had disappeared under laser fire, and without Goodneighbor to act as a stronghold, the entire defending force would have been wiped out. Minuteman missile teams, flamer-bearing Grenadiers, sentry bots and Engineers with precision detonated shaped charges had blunted, slowed and finally halted the Brotherhood force long enough to allow the Castle to strike the killing blow on the Brotherhood airship.

Storming Fort Hagen with Ada, taking the fight to the Rust Devils. In that tight, winding hell of battling raiders and their robots, flames everywhere and empty, automated voices and deadly defenses. General Grayson had personally charged the Devils' leader Ivy, blasting the furion core out of her armor and shoving her over the rail into the bowels of that base to die trapped in her frame. Men and women had died on that raid, and more would die to the Mechanist's own robotic hordes, even with the looming threat of the Institute and Brotherhood looking over them.

It was just battle after battle, war after war. The Minutemen didn't do graves, they normally cremated their dead to save space, effort and preserve memories, but when Grayson stared up at this wall, he saw a mountain of skulls, with himself standing atop it and the Minuteman flag flying overhead. Was this what he'd introduced to the Commonwealth? Not a potential stable future in attempting a second Commonwealth Provisional Government, but endless conflict, where more men and women died to fight those whom he made enemies with?

Had he made things worse than before?

He didn't feel when his fist met the stone. Didn't remember raising it. Didn't remember the conscious decision to slam it beside the names. But he heard the impact. Heard the draw of breath as assembled Minutemen drew in a sharp breath. He felt his breath quicken, his heart pound harder, a cold sweat under the brim of his cap. What kind of man was he? How could he hold his head high after so many had died under his command with seemingly no end in sight?

He thought of Shaun, coming back to the Castle after spending some time in Diamond City with Piper and Nat, all so he could go to school. The boy looked up to his...father. Admired everything he did. He was -proud- to be the General's son. He wanted to follow in Hal's footsteps.

Piper, who looked up to him as one of the few people she could trust again.

Cait, who thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to her.

Preston Garvey, who saw Hal Grayson as the saviour of the Commonwealth.

MacCready may roll his eyes, but the fact he served the Minuteman for barely subsistance level pay spoke volumes of the respect he held for Hal.

Hancock had come to their aide without question, where he could have simply barred his gates and told the Minutemen to take a hike.

Deacon and the Railroad had been saved twice by the Minutemen, and Desdemona had thanked him personally.

Curie hung on Hal's every word, and looked at Boston with such open eyes...in her own words, the Minutemen were the best chance for civilization.

Strong may have been a super mutant, but the fact that 'humans help humans' meant he was more than willing to help Hal Grayson with little question spoke volumes.

Nick had called Hal 'the next Douglas MacArthur. We need a guy like that again.' Hal had offered to come work privately with him, but Valentine had held up a hand, stating the Commonwealth needed him more.

Old Man Longfellow wanted the Minutemen to come to Far Harbor. To protect them. To nurture them, and reconnect the Island to the outside world.

And Codsworth, of course, still happily served from Home Plate, keeping track of the home Hal had set up, happy to look after a family again, odd as it was.

He looked down to Dogmeat, who simply wagged his tail and barked. That was Dogmeat. Always happy as long as he came along.

He looked to his assembled Minutemen, his officers, his soldiers. Combat armor and assault rifles, power armor and miniguns, mortars and flying flags. And they all looked back to him with concern, respect, and the eagerness to serve that had seen them through two impossible wars already. They had won. Yes, they'd taken losses. But they had won where everyone had written the Commonwealth Minutemen off.

Colonel Shaw cleared her throat, stepping forward with her arms crossed over her chest, carefully asking "You okay, General?"

A pause. There were dozens of Minutemen here, Regulars and Militia. For a second, the air was still, with only the distant tones of the radio, the indistinct whirring of helicopters and the underground rattling of generators. But he also heard the sea, and while there would undoubtedly be gunfire in the distance, there was more than ever before. Because from the outpost in Hangman's Alley to the isolated Tenpines Bluff and surrounding frontier, Minutemen stood to repel men, monsters and machines.

And General Grayson felt that spark to reignite his drive since he first took the Castle, that unerring burn to wipe the Institute off the map.

"These men and women have died for us. They have paid the ultimate sacrifice. But they did it on their own desire, for a dream they realized could happen, despite the odds. Some of these soldiers have stayed with us since the beginning, when Colonel Garvey and I first started recruiting. And some only joined on when armageddon was knocking at the door. But they all took up a rifle, formed the line and marched for the safety of their family and friends. For a safer Boston. Because every fight we win, is one less day where a farmer worries about being murdered. Every monster we put down is another trade caravan capable of getting through the ruins. Every raider gang we annihilate is another town that can grow in peace." He raised his fist, the same fist that had pounded into the wall (though now he felt the throbbing in his knuckles and winced) and uttered three simple words. "For the Commonwealth!"

As one, the assembled troops raised their own fists, guns, machetes, and returned in an overwhelming chorus "FOR THE COMMONWEALTH!"

General Hal Grayson had finally found that thing he'd been searching for since he'd ordered the Prydwen shot down; a purpose to keep fighting for.

* * *

Paladin Brandis stood before the wall of photos, dogtags and scrawled notes. It was all they had left here, to mark the passage of the dead. So many more lay in unmarked graves, piles of burned and blackened bones or buried under structures. The coffee mug hung limply, empty in his hand as he considered how many they'd lost. How few were left. The noise of the Remnants command post fell away as the numb sensation settled in his body. The Brotherhood was hanging on, barely. But it was only a matter of time before they were finally forced out. They lost many to desertion, Brotherhood soldiers who saw no way out, corralled into a helpless situation. They lost some to sickness and injury, as medical supplies were definitely running out. They lost some to ambush, snipers, encountering bands of Minutemen and Gunners, deathclaws and mirelurks. They were a depleted force with a handful of vertibirds and were slowly being killed as they tried to hold out. Brandis was hoping to change that, but it might not be a possibility.

"Sir," Straker said as she appeared at his shoulder. He didn't even glance at the Knight, eyes narrowed upon the photo of Elder Maxson, set center of the board.

"Knight," he replied, shifting in his jumpsuit uncomfortably.

"Report from Somerville. The farmer and his family agreed to move on." Knowing Straker, Brandis could imagine how the farmers had been 'convinced' to give up their home near the Glowing Sea. But, it being so close and cut off by a river, several raider hideouts, a Super Mutant fortress and a few mirelurk nests, it could be the best place to escape from Minutemen guns. The nearest settlement, Egret Marina, had no artillery the scouts had seen, relying instead on the guns from Jamaica Plain. While that could potentially change, it would buy time for them to dig in.

"Sunshine Tidings, also. Definitely a Minuteman place, but there's been a continuing rise in raider -customers- if you believe that. They come in and shop at the stands, drink at the bar, buy food...shit's getting weird over there. Some strange guys showed up a few days ago, said something about Nuka-World. Nothing else on that angle."

Brandis grunted. Sunshine Tidings was always going to be a bust, but better to get some knowledge on what was happening there before they tried their mad dash south. So long as those raiders and mercenaries didn't interfere, he didn't care anymore. His dedication to protecting Commonwealth citizens ended when the Minutemen bombed the airport.

Straker cleared her throat, quietly continuing "And one more thing, sir...Proctor Ingram has awoken."

Now -that- got Brandis' attention.

 


	2. Aftermath II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The General is back. But the first obstacle in his way to finally secure the Commonwealth is the Brotherhood Remnants, and they won't leave without a fight...

**2 Days Later**

**Pip-Boy Date 6.6.2288**

**Cambridge Ruins**

"Kingpin Actual, this is Hitman 2, over."

" _Roger, Hitman. Kingpin is receiving you, send traffic over."_

"Kingpin, be advised activity within target compound Charlie Papa Sierra has increased, break. Looks like they're really getting ready to go, over."

" _Copy Hitman, standby."_

…

"Winter's coming early."

"Huh?"

One figure turned to the other. Here, in the rubble, they were near impossible to tell apart. Their duster and drab clothing helped them blend well with the destroyed, ancient brick and steel buildings. Gasmasks concealed their faces, and wide-brimmed hats protected them from the sun beating down on their heads. But while one had been observing the Cambridge Police Station and College Square through a set of binoculars, the other had taken a second to glance towards the north. Not too far away, the imposing and desolate hills rolled beyond sight, full of fog and tiny movements that told of creatures slipping through the dead trees. Even further away, the jungles of Nampsher were deep and foreboding. Not many people went north these days, but the ever present jungle seemed to be coming to them, year after year crawling south.

"What the hell are you talking about? It's June, man."

"Yeah...but the herds are moving south already. You can see them sometimes when you watch the hills. Radstags and brahmin. They only start moving south this time of year when its bad up north."

"...seriously? It's June."

Abruptly, the radio headset connected to the large and bulky backpack, crackled.

" _Hitman, come in. Over."_

The Ranger with the binoculars turned back, leaning his head into the microphone as he viewed the compound again.

"Go ahead, Kingpin."

" _Hitman, you are to continue monitoring the target for any sign of VIPs. Hold fire until you see red flares, ready for execution. Provide overwatch for Task Force Hammer and spot targets for Punisher. Call 'em like you see 'em, Hitman, over and out."_

"Roger Kingpin. Wilco, out." The Ranger with the headset quickly began packing up his equipment, double-checking the .308 hunting rifle as he did so. "C'mon. We need to relocate, get a good shooting perch. It's coming down."

His partner hummed in agreement, bringing his own weapon to bear as he shuffled down off the perch they'd been on, heading further into the ruins. College Square proper would be a terrible place to try and make for, as Brotherhood patrols had taken over the area, and the entire town was now a staging area for the withdrawal.

The Ranger took one more glance to the north, as the hills seemed to loom over the Commonwealth, an almost idle threat akin to a beast gently peeking over a perch as it prepared to swallow up its prey.

"...still say its gonna be an early winter."

* * *

**Corvega Assembly Plant**

**Lexington**

Lexington, being a raider stronghold, was still too dangerous to attempt to move into. The fact that it was infested with feral Ghouls as well as the occasional Super Mutant raiding party meant that, after the slaughter wreaked on the Minutemen there last year, no one wanted anything to do with the place. But ever since the Prydwen had been shot down, Corvega had changed hands a dozen times between Brotherhood, Raiders, Gunners and Minutemen. Too difficult to hold onto for good, it currently hosted the attack force known as Task Force Hammer. Fully half of the Minuteman Regulars in the north backed by several teams of Militia, they constituted nearly a full battalion. On top of the roof, holed up in his command station, was none other than Colonel Preston Garvey, binoculars in hand as he watched Cambridge Police Station. Packed full of Brotherhood soldiers (nearly three hundred from recon reports and some estimate works) and with at least one Vertibird on the pad at all times (the Minutemen were still having trouble figuring out how many aircraft had survived) taking the fortified station would be a challenge unlike the fighting in the Boston Commons. There, the Minutemen had been dug into defense, playing to their strength. Here, the roles were reversed and the numbers almost even.

Preston adjusted the zoom screw gently, and his vision cleared, showing him the Minuteman force. Moving in from the north, Preston had split the attack amongst his three captains. While impossible to avoid being spotted by Brotherhood Vertibirds from a distance, the three forces were moving to surround Cambridge in order to reduce their footprint, force the Remnants to split their defense. He'd ordered his troops out into their assault vectors an hour ago, when the Ranger team had reported the updated information. The elite wilderness troops were in short supply these days to cover the whole Commonwealth, mostly the wilder northern sectors. But their hardiness and superior aim made up for low numbers, and armored dusters were being quickly distributed along with .50 caliber rifles, to those whom they could supply.

He pulled the binoculars up slightly. That had to be Captain Davis' force, moving straight south, towards College Square. The Square itself was a good defensive plaza, with several lanes defending the flank of the Station, forcing any potential attackers into a large, open killzone. Remnant positions and sentry turrets filled the inner structures of the Square, where marksmen with high-powered laser rifles were prepared to pick off any intruders that saw fit to intrude from the north.

To the east, Captain Anders would be moving to set up blocking positions. The buildings to the east provided good areas of approach for College Square and the Station itself, and would make any attacker turn straight into a killzone down the street. There was only one way to directly attack the station, but the General's plan relied on allowing the western approach to remain a viable option to retreat. To the west, past Greygarden, was open and rough country. Gunners, Raiders, Mutants and Ghouls infested this region, and so far as General Grayson was concerned a Remnant migration might do some good in culling the threats out there, while handing them the Cambridge Station. As such, Captain Rogersons' force was held in reserve at the plant, an emergency force to react to any problems that might come up.

"Force them out Garvey," Grayson had told him over the radio set. "We want that station, and Brandis already wants to leave. We just give them some motivation and a single route for escape, they'll leave. We cut them off, they'll just hunker down and fight to the last. That's not a fight we can win without taking huge losses."

Guns were set up at the outposts at Oberland Station and Hangman's Alley. While the former was primarily a farming community tradepost, the garrison there was their best position to launch ordnance into Boston proper. Hangman's Alley had elevated cannons, as they had to fire over nearby structures. Between these two, they hoped to give the Remnants a good reason to abandon their positions.

Preston watched the troops moving just a bit longer, trying to do the math in his head. The morning sunrise had to fight the mists, but it was still possible to see good distances. Remnant T-60s had visors that could see heat signatures, but how many were in the Square? How many snipers? The information the Rangers could send back was limited with just rifle scopes and binoculars, but it sounded like the area was well fortified according to Hitman. Garvey's view drifted over to a small station, just outside College Square. Already, Davis' men were throwing down sandbags and moving scrap around, fortifying the structure as quickly as they could. Engineers with welding torches began crafting cover out of the metal, and two Minutemen set up a WH-Mk. 22, belts of .50 caliber ammunition being laid on the station counter next to the mounted machine gun. Nearby, a Minuteman with a flamer adjusted something on his weapon, heavy combat armor plating strapped onto him covering almost every inch of his body, the stolen Synth combat helmet facemask allowing him to survive the flames he would incur.

He couldn't see Anders' men. All he could do was wait until the radio chirped again. Davis was going to be noticed in the next few minutes, whether by soldiers in the square or a Vertibird passing by. One way or another, however, this would be a fight to write history about.

* * *

**Cambridge Police Station**

"Sorry state we're in, isn't it?"

Proctor Morgan Ingram had always seemed a force on her own. Almost singlehandedly, she'd held that Brotherhood's mechanical corps together while conducting maintenance and repairs to the Prydwyn at the same time. Her mechanics had struggled to keep pace with her, and she inspired them to keep up the pace. Without her, the Brotherhood couldn't have held Boston Airport. Liberty Prime wouldn't even have been possible. But now, the airport was Minuteman territory, and Liberty Prime scrap once again, being salvaged slowly by the General's engineers. It would take them decades to get anything out of it, but they seemed to have the time now.

She'd awakened, but couldn't talk over the last two days. Her ICU, guarded by Initiate Clark (the Remnants couldn't afford to ignore willing manpower, whatever his personal opinions) was in a corner of the makeshift medical ward. The cell bars separated into bays, in which several cots held Remnant soldiers, Initiates and Knights being attended to by those few with more medical knowledge than simply how to administer a stimpack or tourniquet. Given more than a few weeks, they might have had a real chance to recover and fortify. But that time was out now.

Ingram was a mess. She had burns covering her entire body, she'd taken multiple pieces of shrapnel, and several ribs were cracked. Her arms had been saved from being broken by her frame. But that was wrecked. She'd lost her left eye, most of her hair and her voice was scratchy to the point where she could only talk quietly. Brandis could sympathize. He was certain that when Straker and Grayson had found him in that bunker, he hadn't looked very good either.

Ingram shook her head, grunting at the pain. "Sorry state I'm in too," she near-whispered. "I heard the Prydwyn was lost with near all hands. Maxson's dead?"

"We can't confirm," the Paladin replied. "Our time searching the wreckage was short. Minutemen were closing in. Their damn boats got troops straight from the Castle to the Airport as soon as they were done sorting out our...counterattack."

"Genius move that," Ingram spat bitterly. "Who was the moron that ordered a strike of that stupidity? God, don't tell me it was you."

"No. I was a bit busy trying to avoid burning to death, being crushed by debris or shot. Our Ground Teams were almost wiped out in the aftermath. Paladin Rhys ordered every Vertibird within proximity to launch an immediate counterstrike."

Ingram was silent, running the numbers in her head as she tried to grasp what that implied. The number of Vertibirds that could have responded to such a call. With the Prydwynsinking on the horizon, she couldn't think of a single Brotherhood Knight that wouldn't want revenge. She didn't want to know, honestly. She could blank the number from her head. But she asked anyway.

"How many?"

"Ten before I could stop them," Brandis said, and Ingram felt something coil, deep inside herself. "Half of them were full gunships. The rest held a lot of soldiers we could use now." A pause. "They knew we would attack. They had missile turrets on top of that central tower they built. Right where we'd fly in. Grayson was ready to kill us."

She needed a moment to process the loss. Combined with the losses sustained in the Battle of Boston Commons, the Battle of Croup Manor and skirmishing across the rest of the Commonwealth, it was a wonder any birds still flew. She swallowed heavily, still unable to really come to grips with this news on top of the word that near everyone in the Airport was dead.

"Who survived?"

"A small team of seven, led by Straker. She got out with a few wounded. Everyone else either died in their crashing birds, drowned nearby or were gunned down by the Minutemen. After everything stopped exploding, Grayson sent out hunter-killer teams. No one surrendered. I hear he shot Rhys himself."

Brandis let a tired sigh out, running a hand through his greying hair. He'd turned down one of the functional T-60s himself. After so long without, he'd learned how to make do in just a suit of combat armor, a skill many Knights forgot after being in plate for so long. The last two days, he'd gone without sleep trying to keep the station organized. The Minutemen had moved out of Starlight, occupying Lexington and the Corvega plant. Recon from his scouts and Birds told him they weren't fortifying the place, so they didn't intend to hold the zone. Smart move. But that only left one option.

"They've left us alone up until now. Scouting the area, taking potshots at our patrols. We got a few teams out west, lined up our next site. It's a bit of a trek. But we'll be ready to wait until help arrives." Deja vu, much?

Ingram frowned. It took Brandis a moment to realize, seeing as her face was wrapped in swaths of gauze.

"We're leaving?"

It was a natural question to ask, of course. The Paladin had just admitted that the Police Station was being watched, with fortifications already dug in, and most of the Remnants and their supplies were stationed here, including the wounded.

"We can't stay. The Minutemen have us surrounded, and we're in spitting distance of both Diamond City and their Northern Command. We're in a killzone, and if they want to really do us in, all it'll take is a few guns on top of Corvega. They're moving forces up on us right now to the north. We're going to start evacuating within the hour."

Ingram sighed, the sound from her ravaged throat sounding like someone running sandpaper down a door. For a moment, the two listened to the Police Station in motion, as Remnant soldiers rushed back and forth, preparing the evacuation that was supposed to kick off as soon as could be managed. What supplies they could take were being boxed and tucked into any pocket, pouch or pack that could be managed. Brandis was gambling heavily on moving quickly once they were underway. Unlike the Minutemen, the Remnants had no pack brahmin, a contingency they had never seen fit to require with their airpower. But most of the Vertibirds were going to be taking off with the wounded and critical systems and supplies like computers and mininukes, flying to Somerville Place and dropping off their cargo with the recon team and coming back. Assuming no birds were shot down, fully half of the Remnant force would be in the land convoy. There was no doubt, the more people that were evacuated, the fewer there were to defend the perimeter. They would have to leave, point blank. But out of the entire airfleet, they had seven aircraft left. Of those, one was a fully-armed gunship. At this point, Minutemen salvage efforts meant the Commonwealth matched (and would soon exceed) Remnant airpower with that factory of theirs that was spitting out whatever combat gear they needed. If its location had ever been found, Brandis didn't know, and no one here seemed to know either. A shame, for if they could find the installation and end the flood of weapons, ammunition, robots and now aircraft coming out, it would really tip the balance.

Brandis stood, reaching for his helmet as he did so.

"It's good to see you're stable again, Morgan. I'll look into seeing if we can get one of the frames modified for your use. Our Scribes are a bit overworked, but they're dedicated."

"One more thing," Ingram said, taking Brandis' wrist gently. At first, Brandis wondered if this was because she was just trying to get his attention, but a glance at the agony on her face, even with Med-X coursing through her system, told him it was all she could muster.

"You've got other Paladins under your command? Any of them giving you trouble?"

"Uh, no. To be honest, a lot of them are still in shock," Brandis shook his head. "I think when I started trying to get everyone together, they just accepted that I was in charge."

"Good. Then on my authority as last confirmed remaining Senior Officer of the Brotherhood of Steel, I hereby promote you to the rank of Sentinel." She smiled up at him, her burnt lips cracking. "I suppose it's just formality at this stage, but I don't want any doubt. Can't have one of your guys starting a mutiny once they get their heads on straight enough to lose them."

The Paladin, apparently Sentinel now, was floored. While battlefield promotions such as this were common, he'd never imagined he'd make the grade. Paladin was about as high as he'd imagined he'd make, and there hadn't been a Sentinel in the East Coast Chapter since Sarah Lyons' time. In retrospect, it made sense to promote him in the current crisis, though he'd never imagined keeping the role. At the time, staying in command was only to help the Brotherhood survive.

He tried to refuse. "Proctor, I'm not sure I'm suitable for this position. As you know, before the current conflict, I was on probationary service, assigned to security and under review. They expected me to require years to recover and-"

"And you took charge of a bad situation and got as many people here as you could. Spare me the modesty horsecrap, Brandis. Unless you can find me someone better, you're our best bet. I can't do a damn thing, I'm useless like this. And I'll be useless after. Can't really take to the field in a wheelchair, and that means I can't lead from the front. They need someone like that right now. So...go kick ass in the name of the Brotherhood, Sentinel."

For a moment, the two leaders merely took in the situation in the relative silence that Ingram's ICU cell afforded her. They, like the rest of the Remnants, had survived where so many had fallen. Ingram could barely believe that Maxson, Teagan, Quinlan, Kells, Cade and even Li on top of so many others were just gone. Her last memory was of the Prydwyn'shulk collapsing on top of her. Now almost everyone she knew was dead. Brandis had to be taking it especially hard…

Abruptly, their moment was interrupted as the ground shook.

* * *

"Artemis, we're being shelled! Repeat, we're being shelled!"

Knight Penelope Straker hadn't been in her suit or in College Square when the first shot had hit, but it only took her a second to dash to her suit of T-60, punching the release and leaping in. In moments, she had burst through the doors along with the flood of other soldiers sprinting towards the defense line. They only had a handful of suits remaining, constituting a few dozen out of over a hundred defenders. Her own suit, beautifully painted in Knight's heraldry with a stylized shark on each thigh, just like on her own combat armor. For a time, she'd had her own fast attack squadron, used to address immediate issues; Shark Pack.

She was one of three Sharks remaining.

"Sharks, tell me you're up there!" she bellowed into her radio, moving down the street only to take a bullet in her pauldron. The storm of fire here was thick, and while the Remnants were mostly firing back laser bolts the return of hard rounds laced with lasers both red and blue drowned it out. The Minutemen had to have a large force out there, shooting in from outside the buildings.

" _Roger that, Knight! I've got Shark 3 here with me, we're holding on top of the diner!"_

Near her, a Remnant Knight in combat armor took a round that tore out his throat, and he fell gagging on his own blood. A shell landed nearby, blasting apart a ruined bus and killing two more. Atop a building, a Remnant missile trooper loaded his weapon, waiting for a target before letting the rocket go. Before it was even halfway to target, his loader had reached up and slotted a new shell into position. More bullets pinged off Straker's armor, and she had to duck behind a ruined car, firing back with her own rifle over the top, lest she take a round in a joint and deal lethal damage.

"Artemis, come in!" she hollered as another shell landed in a building full of Remnant soldiers, collapsing the structure down on top of them.

" _I'm here, had to run up from the medical ward! It's chaos over here, report over!"_

Finally, Brandis had reached his command station.

"We're taking long range artillery fire, and there's a force posted to the north, over!"

" _Dammit. Just heard from Shortsword. There's an enemy force posted to the east. We're blocked in."_

Straker howled in frustration, though that might also be the blast of LMG fire that had just taken her in the head. Her armor's damage control blared at her, and she saw that her helmet's integrity had been reduced to 55 percent. Brilliant.

She stood, and her helmet's sensors picked out pinpricks in the distance. The Minutemen she could see were firing from long range, dug in just outside the Square. She put one of them in her sights, firing several shots and feeling a thrill as her target fell, though she noted another ran up to drag his comrade into cover. She hissed, but then had to duck as a shot fired from a grenade launcher came arcing in, blasting off a wall nearby.

"Artemis, Shark-actual! We're getting murdered down here! What are your orders, over!"

" _Shark-actual, I'm initiating Plan Somerville. How much time can you give me, over?"_

Plan Somerville. She and Paladin Brandis had spoken of the need for evacuation at some point in the near future, but it was always assumed to be in stages, getting the wounded and non-combatant personnel out first with as many supplies as they could carry. To initiate the withdrawal just as the shooting had started would be almost impossible.

"Artemis, be advised. That Plan might not be feasible at this current time! We have no avenue of withdrawal, over!"

" _We just need time. The west is open, Straker."_

The west. That couldn't be a coincidence, and Brandis had to know she'd realize that. Grayson and Garvey weren't idiots, so leaving the west open before initiating the attack had to have been a message. One the Remnant leadership heard all too well.

"How much time do you need?"

" _How much can you give me? I've already got two medivac birds away, six more trips to go."_

Two of those birds would have to come back for the wounded. The others would take whoever else they could. Everyone else would have to start moving on foot.

A roar emanated from the sky, and Straker turned her head upwards to spot their last gunship Mutant Slayer soar by, side mounted laser gatlings spitting out blistering storms of red bolts. It soard past the Square, moving in a wide circle avoiding the overpass. Heavy machine gun fire blistered from the Corvega plant in the distance, but the helicopter's armor seemed to take the brace, tilting to let a handful of missiles away, bombing the positions to the north. Another missile arced up out of the smoke, chasing the Vertibird, but Slayerbanked sharply, letting the shot go wide. Clearly, the Minutemen didn't have computer trackers as standard across their forces. Slayer let off several more laser volleys before retreating into the distance, but Straker could hear fire off to the east seconds later.

That was her opening.

"Artemis, I'll get back to you."

She took two steps, triggering the jetpack she had strapped to her back. A battlefield reward for killing a Behemoth, the pack spouted smoke, carrying the full weight of her armor up and over the car wreckage she'd been using as cover. The small diner zoomed up into her view as she rocketed towards it, slamming into the rooftop. Amazingly, the battered structure held under her impact, and she rushed to the barricade alongside her other two sharks.

Knight Varley glanced over at Straker, and she knew it was him by the grinning shark motif he had spray painted onto his helmet. He nodded before standing again, cocking his arm back before chucking the plasma grenade he'd been priming, returning to the gatling laser in his hands. He'd turned off his radio, but even over the battle and the humming of the heavy laser, she could hear the curses and insults he howled into his helm.

Knight Hardin was more composed. He turned to Straker and tossed her a grenade of his own before returning to taking potshots at Minutemen in the distance.

"Good to see you, ma'am."

Straker threw the grenade herself, not as far as Varley had but a respectable distance, though the smoke and chaos were both so intense she couldn't tell if it did much of anything. She let a few shots off through the smoke, grinning as she heard the strangled cry of a falling Minuteman. She too ducked, taking Hardin's shoulder with her.

"Brandis is sounding the fallback! We've got a corridor to the west, and he's taking it!"

Hardin was quiet for a moment, and she could hear the gears working in the Knight's head. Hardin had always been the smarter of her Sharks, and was her backup tactician during their tour here in the Commonwealth. He worked out all the details much faster than Straker herself had, and come to the same conclusion.

"What if it's a trap?"

But Straker, now committed, shook her head.

"If they wanted us dead, they could just bomb us until the area's rubble! They want the station, and they'd like it without too many losses!"

"Gonna have to disappoint them on that!" Varley howled, now back on the net. Even still, the man was breathing hard and fast. Straker liked a good fight, but Varley lived for battle, had no better joy than combat. Straker was a bit afraid that he might even get off on it, but so far it just seemed like the Knight was always battle hungry. She reached over, knocking him on the arm to get his attention. The heavy Shark stopped firing briefly to glance down, almost quizzically, and she brought a hand up to indicate he needed to watch her.

"Brandis needs time. They're evacing the wounded, and the Slayer's not going to be able to stay forever!" As she spoke, the gunship in question soared past, strafing the Minuteman lines with a quick burst before pulling away like a fast attack plane in a Pre-War battle. The response fire thickened. "We have to disrupt and delay the Minutemen if we're going to give the station enough time to empty!"

"How long until he starts?" Hardin asked, and Straker pointed at a line of structures on the south side, previously filled with Remnant soldiers, now emptying out as Knights and Initiates provided supporting fire, snipers and automated defenses remaining to do what damage they could.

"Now! They're going to erect defensive positions around the station so the convoy can get through!"

Overhead, a medivac vertibird spun around in an arc, the pilot apparently trying to avoid something on the ground, and was punished as a missile streaked out from Corvega. Straker could only watch in horror as the shot soared by, her Sharks helpless to stop the projectile as it smashed into the Vertibird's cockpit. The aircraft tilted, foundering in the sky before an engine pod detonated, and the helicopter began to lurch into a death spiral, soaring down towards the river whose name time had forgotten. As if in slow motion, she watched the craft smash into the opposite bank, its frame brewing up. She couldn't tell from here if there were survivors, but she hoped they got out before response teams from Oberland arrived.

"Well, there's one reason to get moving," Hardin muttered dryly. Varley appeared to agree, but his response was once more muted as he howled within his helmet, the laser gatling howling as he blasted down towards the Minutemen below. Straker stood, and her sensors told her exactly where the enemy was, positioned just to the north. Another shell detonated nearby, and she hollered "Shark Pack, move to assault positions! We're jumping to that rooftop!"

The building she'd designated had been left empty to facilitate a killzone, and was now their target for launch. Swiftly, all three Sharks boosted up to the top of the building, and for a moment the incoming fire slackened as they left the storm of hard rounds and occasional lasers. Here, free in the air, Straker felt that buzzing grind of adrenaline in the back of her skull. Aside from a Vertibird, this was the closest she would come to achieving flight in her life. Even the Prydwyn had felt less like flying and more like being on a moving building. But here, blasting towards the abandoned tenement, she felt more alive than ever before.

The Sharks all smashed down, and she could hear Varley whooping as he raced to the rooftop, resuming his barrage. He apparently felt the same way, and even Hardin couldn't hide the quickened breath he had. The Shark Pack had been among the few of the Brotherhood gifted jetpacks, and now they might be the only ones left with the valuable tech. Straker intended to keep that up.

"Again!" she yelled, racing for the edge as she watched her charge meter build slowly. Too impatient to wait for the reserve to fill, she made a decision, and simply bulled her way over the roof, plummeting towards the street.

The Minuteman she landed on never saw the mass coming. It looked like he'd been moving from one piece of cover to the other, reloading his rifle as he went. But when Straker's full weight and velocity hit him, the collision reduced the soldier to a blast of red paste and blue cloth across the ruined street, painting the front of her armor in viscera and gore. Nearby, two Minutemen stumbled away, staring over at her with wide, horrified eyes. She didn't give these two time to react, reaching out and grabbing one's head and crushing it with a metal hand, feeling his skull splinter and crumble and crack under her fingers as brains and blood seeped out. The other she took by the throat, holding him up in the air as the man struggled. To his credit, he reacted quickly, drawing what looked like a Browning Ultra-Power. Three 9mm rounds struck her helmet, driving her armor integrity further and further down before she brought her rifle around, shoving the barrel under the Minuteman's armor and pulling the trigger, flash broiling his guts.

Next to her, Varley landed, howling with laughter.

"That's the way, boss!" he hollered, charging forward and flattening at least four before he turned his gatling laser on the nearest defensive position, blasting away flesh, sandbags and metal. Hardin landed near as well, putting two shots into a Minuteman nearby before buttstroking a second.

Straker turned forwards, intending to press the attack, only to be greeted by a sight that made every alarm in her helmet blare and her eyes widen to saucers. An Assaultron, painted dark blue and wielding an electrified sword on each arm, was charging out of the smoke. Sparks danced off its hull, and that armor looked thick, so thick she wondered how it moved so damn fast. And then it was upon her, one arm slicing down as the other chopped from the side. Straker had a moment to note the Minuteman insignia on its chest before she grabbed the arm coming down, blocking the other by moving closer in and rendering the strike impotent. Electricity shot down her suit, and even with the conductive lining she could feel some of the amps dancing through her. She roared, reaching up and clamping her fist down on the Assaultron's head, squeezing as hard as she could. The robot burbled in confusion before smacking Straker again, this time burying the edge in the Knight's shoulder while the other arm flailed around, trying to find purchase. Straker began to shoving, physically driving the robot back before she brought her other hand to mechanical torso, pulling and yanking until the head finally ripped away, and the now headless torso collapsed. She glanced at the still sparking head before tossing it away. It was time to move on to her next target.

* * *

The evacuation was proceeding. Sentinel Brandis had mostly stayed in his command room, coordinating both the defense and the retreat. Might as well call it what it was. They were abandoning the station. Minutes in the defense, and Brandis knew they were outmatched. Shells pounded College Square and the station yard, and incoming fire had killed a score of defenders. A medivac was down, and his dispatched recovery team had yet to report back. Mutant Slayer was taking heavy damage, and it was only a matter of time before she was overwhelmed.

They were holding on, just barely. But the Minutemen not only matched them in numbers, but also firepower and tenacity. Most of what they were facing were Regulars. Their captains were holding back the Militia from the worst of the fighting. Brandis had heard reports of Regulars continuing to fight even as buildings collapsed around them. They wouldn't break off this attack.

Another shell smashed into the station itself, making the structure rumble. The walls held, but Brandis could hear the bricks crack outside, metal supports groaning.

"Get that bird off the pad, now!" he snapped to his radio operator, and the Scribe hurriedly yelled "Saber 1, you are clear to go! Advise you take off immediately!"

That was the last bird, lifting off with the Proctor and most serious wounded. Two birds were already returning, but with the loss of one of their craft, the Remnants were even more hard pressed to keep going. Brandis had already ordered a third bird to return, but that would be stretching their supplies and support. Those Vertibirds wouldn't have sufficient cover to keep them safe, and the ground column had to get moving now. College Square was still being evacuated, most of the defenders out and away. Straker and her Shark Pack had gotten the idiot idea in their heads to smash right into the northern Minuteman lines, and while the enemy was certainly disrupted, the Sharks were outnumbered ten to one.

"Paladin-I mean Sentinel!" Paladin Meyers said. "A mortar shell landed near the gates! We've got at least five KIA and a half-dozen wounded!"

"Dammit! Tell the survivors to strip the dead of their supplies and tags, grab the wounded and continue mission! We've got absolutely no room to stop!"

"Sentinel, Slayer reports she's down to her lasers! Missiles are bingo!" hollered one of the Scribes controlling air traffic.

"Get her to check on that recovery team! I need answers and they may need support!"

And on. For what seemed like an eternity to him, he tried to hold on to his collapsing line, while shells landed around the Police Station, rattling window panes and sending soldiers stumbling around.

Abruptly, a yell from the staircase. One of the Knights on the rooftop rushed over to him.

"Sentinel! Another Minuteman force from Corvega!"

Brandis cursed, and asked how large the new force was. He was told it was difficult to get a number with the fog, but at least thirty, with attack dogs and robots.

They were out of time.

Brandis stalked to the window looking out into the street to the south. Just across the river, he could spy tracers and lasers trading around the Beantown Brewery. Hell, this close up, a few teams of Minutemen had approached. He could spy a trio of power armored Enforcers harassing the barricades, all three of them spraying the gates with miniguns and retreating to cover when the Remnants brought out response forces, a volley of launched grenades beating back the Knights and Initiates who tied to counter..

"Get Shark Pack back here, before they're smashed," Brandis said, stepping over to a bag he'd packed nearby, a military grade rucksack that he hefted up onto his back. "How many more to evacuate?"

"The last three groups are on the pad," said Paladin Meyers. "Everyone else in the ground column is either part of the defense or on their way out. No response from Greygarden, but the recovery team at Beantown reports taking fire from the south."

"Keep up the evacuation. Make sure those birds get away, at least. Then burn whatever you can't carry and get out."

"Sentinel? Where are you going?"

Brandis picked up his helmet, flipping it around and sliding it onto his head, snapping the facemask into place and sliding his goggles down.

"Radio me when we're about to collapse," he said simply, before he stepped out the doors, Survivor's Special in hand.

* * *

Scribe Haylen knew she didn't belong here. When she had first come out here with Paladin Danse, Knight Rhs, Keane, Worwick, Brach, Straker and Dawes, she had done so with a purpose. When the Prydwyn had arrived she'd been so full of pride. Everything had seemed to go so right. Like Elder Maxson had described. But sitting alone in the garage of the Station, listening to the artillery pounding the ground, the whine of lasers, the chatter of automatic weapons, she couldn't see that anymore. The Brotherhood of Steel's grand purpose, dashed to the ground. Their mighty airship reduced to burned scrap on an ancient runway. Elder Maxson was dead. Knights had extorted and oppressed the innocent in the name of the mission. Now they were running to the edge of the Commonwealth, away from the very people they'd sworn to save. Had she judged the Brotherhood so wrong? Had they strayed from their mission? Or had she been so colored by how she'd seen them in the Capital Wasteland that she'd ignored their true nature? She didn't know anymore.

Maybe it all started to go wrong when Maxson ordered Straker to kill Danse. Maybe when General Grayson had tried to intervene and talk Danse out of the Commonwealth. Haylen had only heard of what happened in the aftermath, but apparently Straker had put her rifle to the back of the General's head, even with three veteran Minutemen aiming shotguns at her back. Somehow, everyone had walked away. But Danse was proclaimed dead. Maxson and Grayson had a tension thick as concrete between them. And Straker had been given her Shark Pack while her promotion of Paladin was being considered among the Proctors.

Or maybe when Grayson blew up the Institute. Or when Maxson had demanded the Minutemen turn over all artillery, lasers, robots and Vertibirds. Maybe that's when it all fell apart.

But Melissa Haylen didn't know. All she knew was that the Remants were falling back. And the Brotherhood had failed here. And her friends were dead. Now, she was betraying her order.

She reached behind the wrecked police car, tugging a backpack out and checking the contents. Ever since Paladin Danse had been declared an enemy, she'd gotten the idea that looking out for herself might be a good idea. Now, that had finally come full circle. She rifled through the spare wastelander clothes she'd picked up, the purified water, rations, the 10mm pistol she'd acquired. Quickly, she tugged her fatigues off, electing to keep the hood and goggles. They'd be useful under the blistering sun. Instead, she changed into a shirt and coat, turning to the open door. Outside, the battle raged, but she knew that the west was open. All she had to do was go north from there, and the Commonwealth was open to her.

Haylen checked the safety on her pistol, chambered a round, holstered it, then set out.

* * *

The Minutemen were endless. She had to have killed at least a dozen, yet the incoming fire never slackened. Now forced back into a collapsing building, Straker wondered if perhaps there had been enough time already.

"INCOMING!" yelled Hardin, just as another grenade shot through the window, detonating off the opposite wall. Outside, a mortar shell detonated just nearby, turning a wrecked bus into a cloud of flying shrapnel. Varley stepped up, firing a few shots before a brace of shots smacked him in the shoulder, helmet and chest. He staggered back, howling in pain. Straker, on the second floor, had drawn her sidearm, firing down into the crowd below. Her target, a Minteman Enforcer, stumbled a bit before straightening again and firing back up at her, the Shrike .308 machine gun stuttering. She cursed, ducking back down again.

"Shark 2! Any more explosives?"

"Out, Actual! Left flank is being enveloped!"

She jerked back out. It was true, there was another team of Minutemen dashing into position, trying to come down one of the side lanes. Shark Pack was being fenced in, and it was only a matter of time before the hammer came down.

Another mortar shell arced in, landing just in front of their shelter. Straker felt the blast rattle her armor and bones, and her integrity meter dipped even lower. Her arms, legs and helmet were all blaring between 10 and 20 percent. Their extra mobility was made useless by overwhelming numbers. And if Straker was almost out of fusion packs, so were her men.

She returned to the radio as another high-caliber round soared past. Some asshole sniper out there was taking potshots at them, and none of them could find the bastard.

"Artemis, this is Shark Actual! Come in, dammit!"

Static returned to her. Down in the street, a junkbot made up of the treads of a robobrain carrying the torso of a sentry bot and a terrifying set of nailguns, rolled in front of a Minuteman fireteam. With their bullet catcher in place, these Minutemen set up behind a pile of rubble, and one of them she spotted with a weapon that glowed orange. With heavy plate armor and a facemask vaguely looking like a skull, the Fire soldier stepped out, his flamer blasting a tongue of fire as he went. The lower floor was enveloped in flame, and while Varley merely yelled in rage and frustration, Hardin screamed. His cries pierced Straker, and she stepped back to the stairwell to watch as the armored figure of her Knight stumbled backwards, his plate and seals on fire. But from his neck spouted more flames, and she realized with dread that some of his seals must have been punctured or damaged, and she was literally watching him burn alive.

Without hesitation, she sprinted back to the window, triggering her jetpack and flying up into the air. While most of the Minutemen down below saw her coming and scattered, the flame bastard was getting ready to fire another stream. She landed right on top of him, the flamer and tank full of napalm both detonating under her boots in spectacular fashion. She turned, illuminated by the flames as the Minutemen and junkbot paused only a moment and continued firing on her. But she didn't care, even as she felt bullets finally penetrate her battered plate and tear at her flesh.

Straker dashed forward, grabbing one man by the head and twisting savagely, feeling his neck snap. She shot the next one in the face, and while he was probably dead with the first bolt, she wanted to make sure and shot him twice more. The bot came up into her view, and she smashed one arm aside, even as she felt the other slam a nail into her thigh. She roared inside of her helmet, grabbing the bot at the shoulders and pulling as hard as she could. When she could hear the scream of hydraulics but couldn't rip the limbs off, she dashed forward, smashing the torso repeatedly, until a plate buckled and she dove both of her metal hands inside, ripping out robotics guts left and right. In seconds, the junkbot died, crumbling in on itself before she drew her sidearm again, blasting its faceplate into molten scrap.

She turned to the last two Minutemen, both of whom had taken the chance to reload, and were watching her carefully. She pushed the bot over, taking two steps to the left as it continued sparking.

"Run...worms," she said simply, but her helmet's audio speakers must have been damaged. Instead of her own voice, she heard something dark and twisted, like a Deathclaw that had learned to speak. For a moment, both of the Minutemen looked like they were going to do just that.

But before anyone could react, the junkbot's fusion core detonated.

* * *

**Near Gwinnett Restaurant**

**South Boston Military Zone**

When the Minutemen had reclaimed the Castle, one of the first things done was to sweep through the surrounding neighborhoods, cleansing every site of Super Mutants, Raiders and Mirelurks. While none of these areas were heavily infested by themselves, the entire block had turned into a free-fire zone, fires burning in the distance while the Castle's artillery had boomed endlessly, shelling the streets when blue smoke arose. And it drifted from every lane. All five guns had pounded the area over and over again. Piper remembered seeing the fires from the walls, listening to the fighting from a distance. Cait had been out there, in the fight, while Curie had stayed behind administering aid to wounded Minutemen dragged back to the fortress.

Now, as the three women accompanied the caravan through the ruined streets, the place was far safer than it had been in the past century. The police station was now a Minuteman outpost, Andrew Station cleaned up, fortified and expanded upon to act as a gateway into the area, and the Gwinnett restaurant an aide station and trade post. While the factories and brewery were still abandoned save for scavenging parties pulling out scrap, the mutants in the area had been burned out. South Boston was Commonwealth Minuteman territory.

That's why Piper Wright took the chance to tug her notebook out, scribbling a few notes down. While she would normally never take the risk of letting the Commonwealth be responsible for her safety, here it was different. Bar the occasional Mirelurk crawling out of the sea, this region of structures were mostly safe, a necessity in order to allow supply convoys to reach the Minutemen headquarters. Safety out in the wastes was a rare thing, and she abused the liberty.

"Shaun," she suddenly called out, and after only a moment there was a scampering of feet from around a nearby pack brahmin. Ducking past a Minuteman guard and one of the handlers, Shaun Grayson was suddenly at her side. Give him credit where it was due, the General's son was responsible. Sure, in Diamond City, he was a bit of a prankster, stayed up with Nat to spin out various plots, abused his knowledge of technology to cause Mister Zwicky's projector to only ever show slides from old Grognak cartoons and had tried to fake his age by presenting an ID card that had made Vadim laugh the kid out of the Dugout Inn…

Actually, come to think of it, the kid was pretty high risk. About the only thing Piper could say in his defense was he never did anything to put himself or anyone else in danger. She mentally rolled her eyes.

In the present, she reached into her bag, tugging out a small tin of Cram. While bread and utensils were rare, the meat itself was bland enough to be enjoyable on its own.

"If your dad asks, you ate this two hours ago."

"You bet, Miss Wright," Shaun agreed, taking the tin and cracking the top without hesitation. Okay, another point in the kid's favor. Whenever Piper screwed up, he always seemed ready to help her with damage control. In this case, forgetting to give Shaun his lunch.

"Thanks kiddo. I owe you one."

"Don't worry. I'll figure out how to get you back."

The eleven year old smirked through his quick meal, and Piper scowled as she once more reconsidered her opinion of him. Forget it, he was just like his father, an absolute devil in disguise.

"I'm starting to feel like this relationship is more loan shark and victim. Go on, get out of here!"

With that, Shaun took his can of processed meat and trotted ahead, exploring some of the ruins at a safe distance, where the nearby guard could unsling his shotgun and cover the boy. He was a scrounger that one, like Blue had been. Always poking around for Pre-War tech. He liked visiting the factory, where Sturges and Isabel worked on the Minutemen robotics fleet and assembly lines for so much of their hardware. Piper listened to him and Nat play in the Publick's shop, reading old comics and trying to figure out how to identify a synth. They'd become partners in crime, and when they weren't trying to push papers onto Diamond City residents, they were off getting into trouble together, much to Diamond City Security's consternation.

"You are very good with children, Mademoiselle Piper," said an accented voice nearby, and Piper didn't even have to look up from her notepad to know Curie had stepped over to her. Dressed in her Minuteman blues and medical kit, Curie both at once blended into the ranks of soldiers around her and stood apart with her well-sculpted features. Ever since her recovery from Vault 81 and transfer to a human body (and hadn't that been a trip when the beautiful woman had stepped into the Publick with Blue, for multiple reasons) Curie had always done her best to both advance her research and make friends with the figures in her life. Piper had to admit, over the last few months Curie had shown real personality and growth, and if you had told her the delightful and outgoing young woman in her place had once been a robot, Piper wouldn't have believed them.

"Had to be. Nat's just like him," Piper replied, scribbling one last note before glancing over in Shaun's direction. While Shaun was watched out for by the whole caravan, Blue had entrusted her specifically to watch out for his son, and she would be damned if she'd let that man down.

That man...aside from Preston, she'd known Hal Grayson the longest. She'd only found out his name by accident one time, but insisted on calling him by the nickname she'd given him. At times, he acted like it annoyed him, but she'd caught that spark in his eye that said he was just fine with their back and forth. Such a mystery, her situation. She knew exactly what she wanted from him...or she thought she did. But she always had trouble saying it out loud. There was no way he felt the same way for her. She was loud, pushy, a snoop and an instigator. And he was...a hero, put plainly. Why would someone like that want someone like her to be their partner?

"Of course," Curie continued, snapping Piper out of her self-punishing spiral again. "I had forgotten. Your young sibling is quite delightful as well."

"You sure we're talking about the same girl? Because I've had Security threaten to turn lockup into 'the Wright Suite' before."

"Pardon?"

Piper chuckled. "Long story. You wouldn't get it."

"Ah, of course. I must apologize." They walked down the ruined street in silence for a few moments more, the silence almost unnatural to many in the caravan. Silence in the Commonwealth meant you were either truly alone (not a good thing in and of itself) or something terrifying was stalking you (definitely bad).

"I hate to bother you, Piper. But there is something I wished to ask you," Curie continued, and Piper glanced up from her pad to glance at the synth girl. Even with Curie's lack of social skills and ability to project, something in her voice said she was nervous to bring up what was on her mind. After a second, Piper tucked away pad and pencil.

"Okay, I'm all ears. Shoot."

"It is just...you have always been so good at being direct. At saying what is one your mind," Curie said, looking down and scratching at something invisible on her jacket. Piper for the most part agreed with that statement, up to the point where she constantly got in trouble over it. Though, of course, there was one thing she couldn't bring herself to say. But she snapped out of that line of thinking before she got wrapped up once more.

"It can be hard, I suppose. I kinda grew into it, had to challenge a lot of people who didn't want to hear what I had to say." She glanced to the medic. "Why? You having trouble with someone?"

"Oh, no not someone. Well, yes. I mean...it is difficult to say." Curie fidgeted, a hand reaching to her belt and gently flexing around the grip of her pistol, an action Piper found difficult to argue with. Finally, Curie looked up at Piper, her resolve apparently reinforced. "I am having trouble saying something to someone. I always feel these...feelings for this person, and I feel them so strongly, I feel like my chest is too small, and is about to burst. But every time I get the chance to say it, I always...what is the word? Lose my nerve?"

Piper smirked, the picture finally dawning on her. "Do you have a crush on someone? Is that what this is about?"

"A crush? Why would I want to hurt him, he has done nothing wrong to me."

She clearly didn't get it. Piper chuckled, scolding herself as she remembered this girl was extremely literal and naive. The cost of suddenly becoming a human adult. Piper pondered the situation for a moment before she decided to plunge onwards. She had a little experience with this situation, and Curie shouldn't have to miss out on such an opportunity herself.

"If you find yourself attracted to someone, and you feel like you have a good time with them, they might like you back," Piper explained. "Does he like you back? Who is he?"

"Oh! Non, I shouldn't say!" Curie blushed, glancing away and thinking for a moment before she nodded and replied "Oui. He has a hard time smiling, so many unfortunate things have happened. But when we talk, he seems to smile even more, and he says such nice things to me. I despair that my research will get nowhere, and he assures me that my task is large, and I have plenty of time to complete it. He…" Here, the blush deepened, crimson taking up her face as she seemed to picture her desired man. "He is very good looking."

"Is he? Sounds like quite the catch," Piper said, smiling back as she went through her head trying to figure out who exactly Curie was talking about. She was the head medic at the Castle, and as such interacted with a lot of people. To make matters worse, she constantly traveled to settlements, tending to wounds and curing diseases and ailments. So who among this sea was Curie's crush?

Piper tried to push on with her advise. "Well, if he hasn't said anything, sounds like an opening to me. Tell him you want to spend more time with him. Get him something he likes, let him know you like him. Just step forward, and-"

"Get him in bed with ye!"

Piper almost jumped out of her skin, her head snapping around as their conversation appeared to have picked up another speaker. Cait had taken it upon herself to step over, and behind her mirrored trooper shades, Piper could see that the brawler was smirking, with very dirty intentions.

"Every woman knows the easiest way te git a man to ye is just lure 'im in 'tween yer legs!" she boomed, wrapping a muscled, bare arm around Curies' shoulders. After her cleansing in Vault 95, Cait had put on muscle mass with startling speed, until her shoulders bulged and her biceps strained at any shirt. The Irish lass loved it, and made a show of challenging as many strong looking men as she could to arm wrestling contests in every bar she went. While she may look down on organizations like the Minutemen, their smashing of the Institute and Brotherhood had softened her critique quite significantly. With Blue's advise, Cait had come around to the idea of serving the Minutemen, an organization that gave her some real structure in her newly freed life. Of course, she took that all in her own stride. She refused to wear the uniform, preferring her own clothes under Minutemen combat armor, which she had decorated herself with various slogans, graffitis, a shamrock on the back plate and her kneepads. She did like the hat, thought.

Cait shrugged the combat shotgun off her shoulder, pulling a very startled Curie closer.

"There's something 'bout sex no man can resist! You get 'im in yer bed and give him a good night's fuck, there's no way he'll miss your point!" The freckled redhead grinned, almost leering into Curie's face. "Even an egghead like you can't mess that up! Ye've got the looks, darlin! An' I know you've got...other assets."

"Cait, sex doesn't fix everything," Piper pointed out, gaining the brawler's attention. "Curie's barely able to talk to this guy, and you're telling her to seduce him?"

"Jaysus, good point. Fuck, fine. If gettin' 'im in bed is too much, just lay a big ol' kiss on the bastard next time ye see 'im. It's a step down, but ye can't go wrong with somethin' that can be called 'sweet and nice'."

Cait let go of Curie, and proceeded to mime kissing noises, laughing her head off. Piper and Curie glanced at each other, both a little perturbed by their traveling companions' behaviour.

Abruptly, Shaun let out a yell nearby. So caught up in their conversation, the three women had forgotten about the boy, and Shaun came leaping out of a nearby building, a military grade circuit board in hand as a bedraggled, skinless mongrel followed, barking and snarling as it tried to catch up to and kill him. The Minuteman guard cursed, bringing his shotgun up to his shoulder and pulling the trigger, but the first blast of buckshot slammed into the wall next to the dog, and as he worked the pump the guard swore again. His weapon had jammed.

Everyone leapt to, grabbing weapons and bringing them to bear. But before anyone (even Cait, with her shotgun in hand already) could bring their weapon up (which would probably have been too late) a pair of cracks cut through the still air, and the mongrel fell to the ruined street, two bullet wounds a thumbs' distance apart in its chest.

Piper, holding her MP10 SMG in one hand, gestured frantically for Shaun to come over. He did, hiding partially behind her and staring at the dog that had almost killed him, but aside from a quickening of breath, he didn't seem to be hurt or badly shaken up.

Everyone was staring at Curie, smoking 10mm pistol in hand, her shooter's stance perfect. Piper knew she'd taken shooting lessons from both the General and Colonel Shaw, and she appeared to have perfectly absorbed those lessons.

The guard stepped over to the mongrel, poking it with the muzzle of his shotgun. Death confirmed, the caravan continued on. The Castle was within sight.

* * *

The Castle had received quite a lot of improvements since the Minutemen had taken it back. The walls had been repaired and strengthened, and while not quite as strong as they had been upon first construction, new concrete blocks and reinforced steel panels had gone a long way to filling in the holes. The tops of the walls had received new safety railings, with defensive ramparts and mounted heavy weapons. Every one of the towers were fitted with heavy mortars, and new ramps led down into the courtyard from three sides instead of just the one. The enormous gap in the northern wall had been reformed into a massive gate, with gatehouses on each side.

To get to the front gate, the caravan had to thread their way past a handful of trenches and barbed wire fences. Minutemen standing at guard stood down, guiding them through the network of fortifications. The main gates stood open during the day, and the sign they strode under simply had the Minuteman logo painted on it. One of the lookouts leaned over a railing jeering down at the caravan.

"Hey, Jethro! Still stuck with the damn brahmin, eh? Well, that's fine, we don't want your ugly ass round here anyway."

The guard, Jethro, slung his M199 over a shoulder before he called back "Works for me. Least I get to go tap your sister at Oberland!"

"'Ey, motherfucker, you stay away from my sister, else I'll skin you alive!"

The caravan passed inside, where the brahmin were taken off to a series of feed troughs and unloaded. After feeding and rubdown, these pack animals would be released to the far south, where they would graze on the coastal grass.

" _Good afternoon, Minutemen! It is 3 pm, nothing to report. Stay safe out there!"_

That wasn't technically true. Everyone knew that the battle for the Cambridge Police Station had been raging up north. While the fight should be long over by now, the reports had yet to be released, though rumors were circulating. Supposedly, the station had needed to be pounded flat before the Minutemen moved in and captured it bloodlessly, as the Remnants had turned tail and run at the first sign of trouble. Other sources stated it had been a bloodbath that had consumed countless lives, making the streets of Cambridge run red with blood. Yet more rumors told of a single woman who had torn into Minuteman ranks, laying waste single-handedly to the entire attack force. The most outlandish said that Paladin Brandis had been executed and every Remnant vertibird destroyed.

But Piper knew the danger of rumors. They all held some shred of truth, but were also wildly varied in how much they did. From the total picture, for example, she could tell Cambridge had been bloody on both sides, but a win regardless. Or, so she assumed.

Piper stepped over to Shaun, gave him a last checkover, reminded him to drop his backpack off before running down to the lake in order to salvage scrap from the crashed vertibirds, and to stay away from the minefields. After today's encounter, she doubted he'd stray.

Afterwards, she saw to her own pack, dropping it next to the door to the Barracks level. She still needed to be assigned to a bunk, and for now she could leave it while she grabbed a bite to eat and check in with Blue. The Mess Hall was well-stocked, and constantly had Minutemen filing through. For Piper herself, she grabbed a simple radstag sandwich, with a Nuka-Cola and a few Iguana bits on the side (those always tasted a bit odd, but they went with everything). After that, it was back to the story, working through her jumble of notes in an effort to report on the rise of Upper Stands corruption in the wake of Mayor McDonough's reveal as a synth agent and execution by the General of the Minutemen. Ever since the Mayor had been exposed, the subject of approaching a new mayoral election had been a source of extreme controversy in Diamond City, especially among the suddenly very concerned Upper Stands aristocrats. While business leaders like Ann Codman swore that the Mayoral position had proven to be weak and open to corruption. How very convenient that with a lack of a mayor, control of Diamond City fell to the city council. Which mostly consisted of residents from the Upper Stands.

Nearby, Curie had already gotten started on her medical evaluations, checking with the base physician Doc Weathers. As a traveling wasteland doc, Weathers sold his expertise to travelers and settlements, but given how most of the Commonwealth supported the Minutemen, the joke became that the Doc was a Minuteman doctor in all aspects that were important. During his visits to the Castle, if Curie was on the road Weathers would often stick around just long enough for the synth medic to return, and the two would share information before the wasteland doc would leave once more. Thus the cycle continued.

Cait was in the yard as well, making fun of several Minutemen exercising in the off-time. While some of the troopers had set up an impressive amount of weights on a bar, Cait had simply stepped up and, after slotting even more plates on, proceeded to break everyone else's rep count while laughing her head off.

Nearby, Grace and Dogmeat scratched at the dirt, looking for something. Other guard dogs were out with their Minuteman handlers, but a few of them were here, following their pack leaders and watching the two strange companions dig for who knew what.

Around the fortress, Minutemen went about their duties. Whether pressing ammunition, maintaining their equipment, undergoing last-minute briefings, on guard duty or even in the base's attached bar on the east side docks (the Canteen was quite popular) they had plenty to do. There was only one Vertibird on patrol tonight, but the airbase on Spectacle Island could easily dispatch the other four in the South Boston Patrol Wing and have them here in minutes.

Just another night at the Castle, it seemed.

Abruptly, she heard the doors to the briefing room open, and after a short walk through the passageway, the one person she'd actually been looking for emerged from inside the post.

"Garvey's got the right idea, occupying the place. But we need to get ahead of this. Thirty-five casualties looks terrible out of a force we had. Greygarden stood down?"

"Yes General. No Remnant group tried to push north. They're all still moving west."

"Keep Rangers on them. I want to know if Brandis decides to do anything weird. Word from Mac?"

"None. The boat should be there soon."

"He'll report once he lands in Far Harbor. It's Strong I'm worried about. An island like that, he might get over excited."

"Yessir."

As General Grayson, lovingly known by a thousand nicknames but just 'Blue' to Piper Wright emerged from the tunnel, he ran a hand over his slicked back hair, adjusting the white officer's cap on his head. Something seemed different about him. Ever since the destruction of the Prydwyn, he'd been out of sorts. Depression, PTSD, general fatigue. Piper could have blamed any of those...but her best guess what what he'd found down in the Institute. Whatever horrid truth he'd seen during his short time there, something had scarred him, deeper than anything seen in the Wastes, or on some Pre-War battlefield. Nothing anyone had said, not Piper, not Cait, not MacCready or Preston or Hancock, could bring him to admit what it was he'd experienced down there. No one really saw a need to until a few weeks back.

But now, it was like he was born again. The Blue she saw before her stood straight, with no bags under his eyes, a carefully attended to chinstrap and a clean uniform. He was leading Colonel Shaw and Captain Sanders out, talking with them about various things to do with Minuteman business, of course. Piper snapped her notepad shut, smiling as she rose to move to him. Whatever effect he had on her, it was mighty powerful.

So imagine her surprise when Curie abruptly seemed to fly across the compound, stand before the General for a moment and then lean up, planting a very direct and very meaningful kiss on Grayson's mouth.

The compound went silent, Minutemen staring as their chief medical officer abruptly seemed to throw herself at their commander. And, to Piper's sudden dread, Blue wasn't pulling away. He looked like he'd been about to ask Curie a question, when she'd suddenly put the moves on him! How dare she do that! That was -her- Blue, Piper's man!

Oh God, what was this?

Grayson gently put his hands on Curie's shoulders and, after a moment, slowly pulled her away, frowning as he looked down at her. For her part, Curie's face was burning bright red, but she wore a satisfied smile. She looked back to Piper, a grateful expression on her face.

And suddenly Piper understood. The man Curie had needed help with to express her feelings to...was none other than the man who had made her human!

She was so stupid.

Piper glanced uneasily over at Cait. To her surprise, the redhead brawler had racked her weights, standing and staring at the sight, sunglasses off and a furious, burning visage twisting her features.

Piper felt a strange weight fall into her gut. Things were about to become a lot more complicated.

**Author's Note:**

> Parting Shot: hello everyone, and welcome to my project, Cold Comfort Commonwealth. In it, I explore the idea of what could potentially be. We all know how things take place, how it all leads up and all the choices and dialogue that can be done. So instead, I will be using this project to explore the idea of what takes place in between. All those random adventures and plot holes the game and other stories don't seriously cover. What is the Commonwealth facing now the Institute is gone? Who pulls off the missions for the Brotherhood if you don't do them yourself? Why didn't the Railroad come under attack -after- the Institute's defeat anyway? And what happens in the aftermath with Nuka-World becoming interested in the Commonwealth?
> 
> Also, if you beautiful people have suggestions or ideas, please feel free to submit them with your reviews and criticism! I take it all into account with my original ideas when I write, so don't be afraid to submit what's on your mind, and should this document receive enough popularity, I'll continue the project!
> 
> Hope to see you all on the flipside, wasters! And remember; keep your stimpacks close, those radscorpions far and your guns loaded!


End file.
